A sudden chorus of squeaky sneakers and shouted names cuts through my head, and a moment later, the kids descend, some of them shuffling behind their parents, others running far ahead. A nine-year-old drags his duffel bag while his mom snaps and tells him to pick it up. Two brothers argue over gloves in a way that makes Logan and me look at each other with a chuckle.
Logan tosses me my glove, and we both pick up a bucket of balls as a wave of frantic, baseball-loving energy crashes over us.
I’m smiling before I can help myself.
The kids wave or kiss their parents goodbye and then drop off their water bottles in the dugout. After a few minutes of tying cleats and rummaging through their bags for their hats, my phone chirps that it’s 9:00 a.m.—ready to start.
And that’s when I see her.
Scottie.
She’s wearing a sporty team puffer jacket and walking through a row in the stands. On her head is a toque, as Mom called it, complete with a pom-pom that is weirdly appealing.
Why does she have to show up looking like some Southern snow bunny when I’m not supposed to flirt?
I try to pull my thoughts back together, but it’s like trying to shove silly string back in a can. So I let the sticky, foamy strands stay out and just work around them, corralling the kids with my heart jackrabbiting faster than normal. She’ll be gone soon enough.
I clap my hands once, loud enough to cut through the chatter. “All right, Future Flaps! Helmets on the bench, gloves on your hands, eyes up here.”
A few kids snap to attention immediately. A few more take their time. One kid is way too committed to picking his nose.
Logan steps in beside me, easy grin on his face. “If you’re holding a ball right now, put it back in the bucket. We’re not throwing until I say so. And if you’re picking your nose, get some hand sanitizer before you touch anything else,” he adds, looking at the kid digging for gold.
The kid freezes, slowly lowers his arm, and walks over to the dugout, where an industrial-sized hand sanitizer is waiting.
“Good boy,” Logan says approvingly.
I snort. “That’s not something we grew up hearing a lot.”
That gets a laugh, and the energy shifts—less nerves, more excitement. We split them into groups, and Logan herds his half toward the outfield while I take the pitchers toward the mound.
Logan’s already in his element over there—measured, precise, exactly what the kids need him to be. Where I’m all noise and motion, he’s the guy that keeps that momentum moving forward. The gravity to my fireworks, which is either a great partnership or a personality disorder, depending on whether or not you know we’re twins.
“Okay,” I say, crouching slightly so I’m eye level with the smallest kid in front. Our kids range from nine to thirteen, and there’s a huge difference between the biggest and the smallest. “Rule number one today: We don’t worry about speed. We worryabout control. If you can hit the glove, you’re already ahead of the game.”
A few heads nod seriously. One kid squints at me like I’ve just revealed a trade secret.
We start with grips—four-seam, two-seam—and I walk the line, adjusting fingers, tapping knuckles, offering encouragement. The soundscape settles into something familiar and comforting: leather popping into gloves, kids calling out counts, Logan’s voice carrying instructions from the other side of the field.
That’s when I notice movement in the stands near us.
Scottie’s walking up the dugout stairs with purpose, iPad in hand, phone tucked under her arm. She doesn’t hesitate or hover—just moves straight toward the handful of parents who stayed to watch the camp. She settles in, nodding as she introduces herself, pointing briefly toward a schedule posted by the fence.
Huh.
Is she here … forwork?
My spine stiffens with the urge to stand up straighter—inconvenient, considering I’m coaching kids two feet shorter than me.
Scottie turns then, scanning the field—not for me, I don’t think, but for logistics. For flow. For anything that might go wrong before it does.
Her eyes flick to mine for half a second … and then pass like I’m a stadium fixture that doesn’t need attention.
That’s right: nothing to see here.
Move on.
It’s both so much better than her eyes lingering for a half second and so much worse.
